Love and War
by happycabbage75
Summary: A trip to a car museum turns into a near disaster... Sam never did have as much luck with cars as Dean.
1. Chapter 1

**Love and War**

Summary : A trip to a car museum turns into a near disaster… Sam never did have as much luck with cars as Dean.

Disclaimer: Completely not mine. Just borrowing.

_This story was previously published in _Brotherhood 2_, a zine just for Supernatural nuts like us. It was written to go with this set of stories, however, so I thought I'd better post it along with the others._

_This is an even shorter story than my norm, but hopefully you'll enjoy it._

Chapter One

* * *

"Sam… I think I've died and gone to heaven." 

Dean moved farther into the car museum, a sprawling warehouse in a newer section of Tupelo, Mississippi, birthplace of the King of Rock & Roll. They were just passing through, finished with one job and on the way to nowhere in particular. Not surprisingly, when given the choice, Dean had picked cars over Elvis for their day off.

Dean walked slowly, his hands reverently running along the line of rope set up to keep people away from the cars. Sam watched him, a knowing smile on his face, as his brother stopped every few feet to study the informational plaque and then the car, moving this way and that, bending down or standing on tiptoe trying to see only Dean knew what.

There were ancient cars that looked like no more than a buggy with the horses removed and an engine strapped on, all the way to more modern, almost ridiculous-looking showpieces that had never seen a road in their life. There were old Fords, Cords, Packards, Cadillacs, Auburns, Chevys, Rolls, Duesenbergs, and on and on.

The second Sam had found the brochure in their hotel room, he'd known this would be Dean's kind of place. They had precious few chances to unwind. If Sam could find something to give his brother a few hours enjoyment, he was grateful. Any boredom he might suffer was worth it when he saw Dean rubbing his hands together as he walked along the rows of cars, itching to look under the hoods.

Dean stopped in front of the next car in line, staring in silent awe at something Sam wouldn't have looked at twice.

"You're not gonna cry, are you?" Sam laughed.

"Sam, I know deep down you're really a girl, but can you show some respect?" Dean pointed toward the car that, frankly, looked kind of dumpy to Sam. "You're standing in the presence of greatness."

"If this is holy ground, maybe you should take your shoes off," Sam suggested, trying to keep a straight face.

"And maybe I should've left you at the motel," Dean grumbled. "Go stand down that way. Your ignorance is offending her."

Sam chuckled and moved on down the line, hearing Dean mutter what sounded suspiciously like "heathen." As he neared the end of the row, Sam was surprised to see an elderly man sitting in a 50s Packard. He was in the driver's seat, his expression far away, lost somewhere in the past. After several more seconds, the man seemed to notice him and looked up expectantly.

"She's a beauty," Sam offered.

"Yes, she is." The man nodded, but his expression was odd, still troubled and distant.

Climbing over the rope, Sam stepped up to the car and looked in the passenger window. "Sir, are you okay?"

The man ran his hands over the steering wheel, still not looking at Sam. "Sure. I'm just fine. Everything's fine."

He didn't look fine, though. He looked kind of like a senile guy who'd wandered away from the nursing home, pale and shaky. Sam opened the car door, slipping into the passenger seat. The interior was surprisingly spacious, and he silently thanked the Packard Company for the leg room. "Was this your car?" he asked.

"Of course not," the man answered with a shake of his head as if Sam had asked a silly question.

"Did you have one like this?" Sam pressed, and again the gentleman shook his head.

"Drove one once. Just once."

"Sir, are you feeling all right?" Sam asked again.

"Michael," the old man said wearily, resting his head back against the seat like he could barely hold it up.

Sam was afraid the guy was going to pass out. "Michael, do you need me to call an ambulance?"

Sam jumped when Dean appeared at the open passenger side door and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Sam, I appreciate the blatant disregard for authority and all, but I don't think they want us in the cars, man."

"Just hang on, Michael," Sam said, digging in his pocket for his cell phone.

"Sam, who you talking to?" Dean asked.

Sam didn't bother to look up, flipping the phone open. "Calling 911 for Michael here."

Dean quickly reached in and put his hand over the phone to keep Sam from dialing.

"What are you doing?" Sam demanded angrily, smacking his brother's hand out of the way.

"Dude, there's no one here," Dean answered. "You're sitting in a car talking to yourself."

"What?" Sam turned back toward the driver's seat and gasped. Michael was aiming a revolver straight at his forehead. Sam froze, the cold steel of the gun pressed firmly against his skin.

"Sam?"

He hardly heard Dean's voice, all his attention on the gun in his face.

"Sam, what's wrong?" Dean barked, ordering him to answer.

"I've got a delivery for you, Bob," Michael said lowly.

Sam's eyes widened as Michael's finger tightened on the trigger. He heard the report of the gun, then the world went dark.

* * *

_A little teaser… More tomorrow. I suppose I could post it all at once, but where's the fun in that?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Love and War**

Summary: Sam and Dean's visit to a car museum has given them a little surprise…

_Thank you so much for the reviews! Especially for such a teeny little chapter. I promise not to shoot Sam again. Today._

Chapter Two

* * *

Sam jerked like he'd been shot and fell backward out the open door. Dean lunged to catch him and was momentarily staggered by his brother's dead weight. He wrapped his arms around Sam and eased him out of the car to lay him flat on the concrete floor.

Dean looked him up and down, but couldn't see any major injuries, no bleeding. One second Sam had been talking to himself, the next he was out like a light. "Sam?" Dean said loudly, smacking him on the cheeks. "Dude, open your eyes for me. I don't know what to shoot 'til you tell me what's going on."

A middle-aged woman came running toward him, and Dean recognized the desk clerk who'd sold them their tickets. He quickly held up a hand to stop her approach.

"Diabetic," Dean said, making sure none of his real worry showed through. "He didn't eat much breakfast and his blood sugar got too low. You have a piece of candy or something?"

"Just a second," she said, almost sliding to a halt and then jogging back toward the reception area.

Dean returned his gaze to Sam's pale, drawn features. "C'mon, Sammy," he urged. "Can't die here. It'll taint the cars. Wake up, man."

Sam lay completely still, however, and Dean noticed what looked like a powder burn on his brother's forehead. Like… when the muzzle of a gun was close to the skin when it was fired. _Crap_. This was so not good. And Sam still wasn't moving. Dean leaned over and rubbed his knuckles hard into Sam's breastbone. From experience, Dean knew it hurt like someone was trying to burrow into your chest, but unless you were dead it should get a response. He needed to know if Sam was just out or if this was a bigger problem than he could deal with.

Sam gasped painfully and tried to sit up, but Dean held him flat. "You with me now?"

Sam raised both hands to his head and groaned weakly as the museum worker came trotting back, already unwrapping some sort of hard candy.

"Dean," Sam grunted, sitting up, and Dean let him this time. "He shot me."

The woman skidded to a halt, and Dean knew she'd heard him. He held out his hand for the candy.

"Dean," Sam said more forcefully, grabbing a fistful of Dean's t-shirt, "he sh-"

Dean shoved the candy into Sam's mouth. "I heard you the first time." He raised his head to look at the woman. "Blood sugar." He used his smile that was specifically geared to melt the motherly types. "Not thinking straight."

The woman was wringing her hands, but she nodded, accepting it at face value. Dean saw her eyes nervously dart toward the Packard Sam had been sitting in, though.

"You think you can stand?" Dean wasn't sure what was going on, but he wanted Sam away from here and away from that car. In seconds, his personal Mecca had turned into his personal nightmare.

"Dean, he _shot_ me," Sam said loudly, looking like he was about to bolt.

"You want me to call an ambulance?" the woman asked uneasily.

Dean got right in Sam's face and waited for his eyes to focus on him. "Sam, there's a very nice lady here that you're scaring," he growled. "Now, unless you want me to clock you to shut you up, I need you to concentrate." He saw understanding filter back into Sam's eyes. "Better?" Dean asked, unable to hide his relief.

"Yeah," Sam said, breathing like he'd run a race. "Yeah."

Dean didn't wait for anything else. He stood, grabbed Sam's arm, and hauled him to his feet. "Ma'am, if you'd hold the door for us?" he asked, already pushing Sam forward. The woman hurried for the front of the building, and Dean had the disturbing impression she was getting away from the car as much as trying to help them.

In only a minute, Dean had Sam loaded into the Impala, and in under ten he had him at the motel, sitting on the bed. Silently, he dug through their bags for the aspirin and handed two to Sam along with a bottle of water.

Sam raised his head to look at him. "You really didn't see him?"

With a sigh, Dean sat down across from him on the other bed. "Unless you're talking about the bald guy slobbering on the Jag, then no. Can't blame him, really. That thing was prettier than most girls I know."

"He looked real," Sam said, ignoring Dean's strained attempt to lighten the mood. "I would have sworn he was real."

"What did he say?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothing, really. He didn't look good. I thought he was sick. Said his name was Michael."

"And he shot you?" Dean asked, worriedly studying his brother's exhausted face again.

Sam raised a hand and tapped his forehead dead center over the powder burns, although Dean noted they were already starting to disappear. "Said he had a delivery for me. Called me Bob."

Dean rummaged through his pocket and pulled out the small plaque that had been clipped to the rope in front of the car.

"You stole a museum plaque?"

Dean looked up at Sam's disapproving tone. "Swiped it on the way out." He shrugged. "Hey, their car shot you. The least they could do." Dean mumbled to himself, reading through the technical information. "Nice," he said absently, then kept reading at Sam's annoyed huff. "All right. Says here the car was donated to the museum by Robert and Mabel Mills of Tupelo." He raised an eyebrow. "I'm guessing Bob's part of that donation was posthumous."

Sam rubbed his forehead absently. "Good guess."

Dean watched Sam wince as his hand touched the fading powder burn. "The not-so-dearly departed needs to depart," Dean stated firmly, "and soon."

* * *

Sam and Dean stood in front of a two-story Victorian home sitting on a quiet, affluent street.

"Remind me why people live in this state again?" Dean asked. "It's so hot, I feel like I've been boiled."

"You could try taking your jacket off," Sam suggested.

"Can't do that to the ladies. Too much for them to handle all at once," Dean answered, knocking again, more loudly this time. Truth was, he didn't like going out without a jacket. It was as close to armor as he could get. If he got knocked down or dragged, the jacket would rip and not his skin.

A quick internet search hadn't shown anything about a murder in an old Packard or anything else having to do with a Robert or Mabel Mills. If the murder was old enough, however, the records might not have been computerized. They'd stop by the library if they couldn't get any information here.

A very sprightly looking elderly woman opened the door and smiled. "Can I help you?"

From behind her, they were greeted by the high-pitched chattering of a party, although it didn't sound like the sort of party Dean was used to. Definitely no loud music or booze. The driveway and the road in front of the house were clogged with land barges and, judging by the woman in front of him, Dean had the feeling it was a tea party in full swing.

"Mrs. Mills?"

"Yes?" She looked them both up and down, and Dean suddenly felt scruffy and underdressed, which didn't happen too often. She was dressed simply but elegantly, every hair in place. She just seemed _proper_ somehow.

"We're from the museum, ma'am. We're planning a special Packard retrospective and we were hoping…"

The woman's expression changed only slightly, a mere tightening of the lips. Dean could see the wheels turning, see her stalling for time. He ought to know that expression. He imagined he'd worn it himself often enough.

"I'm afraid I'm a bit busy at the moment," she said, her tone slightly breathless. "We're having our Garden Club meeting."

"Really?" Dean smiled. "Sam, here, has a green thumb like you wouldn't believe." He slapped Sam on the back. "You should see what he can do with gladiolus."

"Oh?" It was a distraction from the car, and Dean could see her almost physically latching on for all she was worth. "You know about flowers?" She beamed up at Sam like he was a wonderful human being, and he shifted uncomfortably.

"Yes, ma'am," Sam said with a slightly uncertain smile.

"Mabel?" another elderly woman asked, worriedly sticking her head through the doorway all the noise was coming from.

"I'll be right there, Myrtle," Mrs. Mills assured her, then turned back to them. "Won't you come in? The ladies would love to have a man's opinion on the new flower arrangements for the courthouse." She was already backing up and heading for the door into the room with the party.

Sam shot Dean a furious look that promised retribution to come, but Dean happily ignored it. "Sam would love to take a peek." Dean patted him on the back again, then pushed him forward.

They walked to the door and stopped as twenty pairs of curious eyes turned to look at them and the chattering of conversation died away. They were examined up and down, and once again Dean felt the insufficiency of his wardrobe in the face of an entire herd of blue-haired women.

"Dude, I feel like Fat Albert," Dean muttered, "and I just walked into a room full of cannibals."

Sam shot him a toned-down version of his normal glare, then turned back to the room. "Ladies."

"These gentlemen have offered to give us their opinion on the arrangements," Mrs. Mills announced happily. "Sam?" She waved him forward, and Sam was immediately enfolded into the gaggle of women, who began dragging him toward a table strewn with silk flowers.

Avoiding the crush, Dean stood back and enjoyed the sight of Sam surrounded by women who were all a good foot shorter than he was. Out of the corner of his eye, he also watched as Mrs. Mills cast him several wary glances as she slowly disentangled herself from the group. Little by little, she moved closer to him and then finally stopped at his side. Dean could see she had used the time to compose herself, but he still waited for her to start. The car was obviously a touchy subject, and he didn't want to spook her.

Mrs. Mills stood beside him, quietly watching the other women, then looked up at Dean, a startling intelligence in her eyes. "Now, young man. You said you were from the museum. What can I do for you?"

Dean offered a calm, soothing smile. "Yes, ma'am, we're planning a special Packard retrospective for a few months from now, and we were hoping you might have some photos we could borrow or," he paused hopefully, "or maybe a few stories you'd like to tell us?"

Mrs. Mills paled, and any happiness she'd been feeling seemed to seep out of her. "No," she said tightly, if politely. "No stories. I couldn't bring myself to get rid of the car, although I hate to even look at the thing. When the museum opened, I couldn't give it to you fast enough."

"There was a problem with the car?" Dean asked, all innocence.

"The man I loved died in that car," she said plainly, her face turned away, watching the women bustling around the table while Sam hesitantly pointed at a few flowers here and there.

"Was your husband in an accident?" Dean asked. He supposed it was kinder than, _Did somebody shoot your old man in the car?_

"My husb…?" the woman said, frowning. "Oh. No, not him."

Before Dean could say another word, Mabel was gone, wading into the crowd. She grabbed a very relieved Sam's arm and began drawing him away. As she passed, she caught Dean's arm with her free hand and began ushering them both toward the front door.

"Well, the ladies and I really need to be working on the arrangements and we've taken up enough of your time," she said, smiling. "I'm sorry I couldn't help with your little project." Dean had the distinct impression she wasn't sorry at all. With the gentlest of shoves, she pushed them out. "So nice of you to stop by," she added and shut the door.

Dean blinked, scowling at the closed door. "Were we just outmaneuvered by someone who gets Meals-on-Wheels?"

"She used the Garden Club. I think they're this town's version of the Mafia," Sam observed as they turned and made their way back to the car.

"So Mabel's husband was named Bob, right?" Dean asked.

"Yeah."

"And Michael called you Bob?"

"Yeah," Sam said again. "So what?"

"So, Mabel just said the man she loved died in that car. And it wasn't Bob."

"An affair that went bad?" Sam asked.

"Maybe," Dean pursed his lips, "but Bob's the one who would've been pissed about an affair, and he died first."

"We need to get to the library."

"Sure you don't want to stay and help, _flower_ boy?" Dean chuckled.

"Thanks for that, by the way." Sam glared at him. "Do you just enjoy embarrassing me?"

Dean's Cheshire Cat grin appeared as he opened the driver's side door. "Do vampires have pointy teeth?"

Sam only continued to glare at him.

"Do demons like devil's food cake?"

"Dean…"

"Do zombies eat brains?"

"Technically, no," Sam asserted.

"Not even the monkey-virus infested kind? I'm telling you," Dean said, shaking his head. "Those monkeys are dangerous."

"Dean, just drive," Sam sighed.

"Fine." He paused. "Man, I hate monkeys."

* * *

_See? No cliffhanger. It can happen. More tomorrow..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Love and War**

_Thanks once again for all the lovely reviews, glad the last chapter gave you all a giggle_.

Chapter Three

* * *

Sam walked back toward the library table carrying yet another oversized ledger holding several weeks' worth of newspapers. He set it down beside the others, then sat across from Dean, who was typing at the laptop. Sam checked his notes and began leafing through the pages. 

"Solitaire is getting a little old, here," Dean said.

"Just give me a minute," Sam answered, hardly paying attention. He found what he was looking for and marked the page, then went back to his notes and began flipping through the book again.

"Dude, if you say 'huh' one more time and don't tell me anything…"

Sam looked up and smiled at Dean's impatient expression. "Here," he said, grabbing one of the huge books. He opened it to a spot he'd marked and turned it so Dean could see the headline.

"_Postal Worker Missing_," he read aloud.

"Our friend Bob."

"Except, we know he's not just missing, he's dead."

"Yeah. With prejudice," Sam said, rubbing the back of his hand against his still tender forehead. "There are other articles later. His body's never been found."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "That explains the 'delivery' remark. Nothing like a good mailman joke before you blow someone's head off."

"Yeah, Michael's a real comedian." Sam opened another book and turned it.

Dean whistled as he saw the headline. "And that explains why Mabel didn't want to talk. Michael shot himself in the car." He squinted, reading the article itself. "He parked it in front of the police station."

"Can't imagine why they didn't put that on the plaque at the museum," Sam added dryly.

"_Michael Anderson, distinguished veteran, newly returned from Korea, was found dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound, _etc., etc_."_ Dean looked up. "What's the time frame?"

"Articles are a couple of days apart, but it happened the same day. And remember, that's Bob's car Michael shot himself in."

"So they were driving around together. Michael killed Bob, stashed the body somewhere, felt guilty, drove himself to the cops, and killed himself," Dean said, thinking out loud.

"Yeah, but why?" Sam asked, completely stumped.

Dean shrugged. "I've been checking on the museum," he said, pointing to the laptop.

Sam could tell Dean was about to say something he wouldn't like. "What?"

"The museum is only a few years old, but there have been three deaths. All were presumed to be medical, but from the reports…"

"Michael shot them."

Dean shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "Yeah, looks like."

Neither of them asked why it hadn't killed Sam. He was a supernatural magnet, yet seemed to have a certain amount of immunity. You didn't get more immune than demon viruses not even fazing you. That, or it was because Sam had known it was a ghost shooting him and not someone real. Either way, they were going to have to do something.

Dean ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Mabel won't talk, and the two guys are dead. So, forget the gossip and forget the why. We go find Michael's grave and do what we gotta do. I'm prepared to live in ignorance about why he offed Bob. How about you?"

"Just one problem with that." Sam shook his head.

"What?" Dean asked as if he didn't want to hear the answer.

"Michael was cremated."

* * *

"I am _not_ burning the car, Sam," Dean hissed. 

"Dean, will you focus on the alarm, please?" Sam shot back.

"Not until you tell me you're not going to burn that car. It's a classic," Dean answered stubbornly.

"You know as well as I do that may be the only way to get rid of him," Sam said, trying for logic.

Dean scowled, not appreciating it. "I expect you to do your ghost-whispering thing. Help the spook get in touch with his inner spook. You got it?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Got it. Screw the ghost, save the car."

"And finally your years of training pay off," Dean said, nodding his approval.

He turned back to concentrate on the alarm box, thankfully not one of the more high-tech ones they'd ever seen. He worked in silence for several minutes and then waited several more, listening for sirens approaching in case he'd botched the job. When no one in a uniform appeared to arrest them, he nodded to Sam, who quickly picked the lock on one of the rear doors, and they both slipped inside.

Dean brought Marigold up and scanned the area around him, dimly visible in the security lighting. As always, he felt more confident with her in hand. She was his favorite sawed-off shotgun and, next to Sam, his best and most reliable backup. In some ways, she was more reliable. Marigold never got pissed at him and took off. She never left him high and dry. When Sam had gone off to college, she had often been his _only_ backup. Of course, she was a lousy conversationalist and couldn't yell when something was about to skewer him, so Sam still had her beat on that score.

Sam came abreast of him, similarly armed and scanning the large storage room. Together they moved forward, out into the warehouse-sized main showroom. The cars still shone in the light of the security lamps. Just one of the nice things about older cars, Dean thought: No skimping on the chrome. He pointed, and they moved carefully toward the Packard sitting at the end of one of the rows.

"You let me know if you see anything, Haley Joel. This one's not talking to me," Dean whispered.

"Why are you whispering?" Sam demanded. "It's not like ghosts have actual ears."

"Why are you?" Dean shot back. Sam didn't answer, and Dean snorted. "Fighting evil means you whisper. It's in the manual."

They continued inching forward, scanning right and left, warily watching the Packard.

"_What do you boys think you're doing_?"

They both spun, weapons ready, to find Mabel Mills glaring at them in disapproval.

"What are you doing here?" Dean challenged.

"What are you?" she demanded in turn.

"We… Uhh…" He shifted uncomfortably, chagrinned. "Yeah, I got nothin'."

"I called the museum this afternoon. You don't work here," she said with narrowed eyes. "And you," she looked at Sam, "wouldn't know a magnolia from a dandelion. So what are you doing here? Why were you asking about the Packard?"

Her bearing was very nearly regal, and she was purposely ignoring that they were armed. Dean almost smiled. She was a tough old bird, and he couldn't help appreciating it.

"We think there's a problem with the car," Sam said calmly.

"What kind of problem?"

Dean ignored her question. She had to know about the car. She'd said she couldn't get rid of it, and Michael had to be the reason why. Dean cocked his head to one side. The reason she'd followed them was more to the point. "How did you know we were here?"

"When I called, I described you," Mabel replied. "Sharon said you were here this morning and that there was some sort of incident. She said you were ill. Then Cindy at the library called me." She knit her brow in agitation. "She said you were asking about the car there, too. That you were asking about my husband. And Michael."

Dean silently cursed the small town _my momma knows your momma_ mentality. It never failed to make their jobs more difficult. Were a bunch of anti-social_, I couldn't care less what my neighbor's up to_ people too much to ask for?

"Cindy heard you say you were coming back to the museum, so I've been waiting for you. I won't let you do anything to that car," she added fiercely.

Dean smiled. "I've been telling Sam that for hours."

"Don't smile at me, young man," she snapped. "You tell me what you're doing breaking in here."

Dean felt a whisper of movement behind him. Cold began to seep through his clothing, spreading through his back, moving up his shoulders and neck. He turned, but didn't see anything. Even his thoughts were beginning to feel cold.

Dean turned back and felt himself raise Marigold and point her at Sam, but it was like standing by watching someone else. There was something… something he needed to say…

"I've got a delivery for you, Bob."

* * *

_More tomorrow…_


	4. Chapter 4

**Love and War**

_As I mentioned this was written for a zine about a year ago, so this is a bit of old-school angst for you today. Now where were we? Um… Dean's possessed and pointing a gun at Sam… On we go!_

Chapter Four

* * *

"What are you doing, Dean?" Sam asked nervously.

Dean took a step toward him, still aiming the shotgun. The step was stuttering, however, halting, as if Dean were fighting it.

Sam held a hand out protectively, though little good it would do him if Dean fired. He'd probably lose a finger. "Dean, just put the gun down."

Dean made a choking sound, half-laugh, half-sob. His face twisted in anger. "That's almost funny coming from you, Bob. It really is. Put the gun down, he says."

"Why is that funny?" Sam gestured toward Mabel, telling her to move farther away. Dean was possessed and armed, never a good combination.

"I left Mabel here to fight for my country. I took up arms. It was my duty to fight, and now," he stabbed the gun toward Sam, "when it's too late and you've taken_ everything_, you tell me to put my gun down."

Sam thought furiously. Michael had been in Korea for several years. From the newspaper articles, it looked like it had only been a week or two after he'd returned that he'd killed Mabel's husband, Bob.

"What?" Dean spat, angrily. "You don't have any other helpful advice?"

"I'm sorry." Sam had no idea what else to say, afraid anything he might guess at would only anger the ghost further.

"You're _sorry_?" Dean said, his eyes wide and furious. "You're _sorry_?"

"Michael?" It was Mabel's voice, tentative and scared.

Dean spun, looking around until he saw her. He became still as a statue. "You… you shouldn't be here." He frowned in confusion. "You're not supposed to be here. This is between me and Bob."

"Mrs. Mills, what did Bob do?" Sam asked quietly. "I need to know."

Her eyes moved from Dean to Sam and then back. "Bob was my mailman during the war," she answered just as quietly. "Michael and I were so in love, but he was drafted and had to go overseas. He promised to write."

"I wrote," Dean said gravely, turning back toward Sam and raising the gun again. "I wrote every week. I kept writing long after I gave up hope."

"I didn't know at the time, but Bob had a crush on me," Mabel said. "He never delivered any of Michael's letters. He threw them out."

"He did _what_?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"I never got any of the letters," Mabel said, tears beginning to fall. "After a while, I just thought Michael had forgotten about me. I stopped writing him."

Fury like Sam had rarely seen washed over Dean's face, fury and desperation. "I was in the middle of a war. She was all I had… all I had to hold on to. And you _took_ her from me."

"You had married Bob by the time Michael got back?" Sam asked Mabel, already knowing the answer.

"Do you know what it's like to fight, to watch everyone around you die, to know that you could be next, and then have the one person who means everything to you, the one person you depend on… To have them abandon you?"

Sam nearly gasped as realization struck him. The ghost hadn't randomly picked his brother. It had recognized a kindred spirit. Michael was angry at Bob for cutting him off from Mabel when he needed her most. Sam knew that, deep down, Dean felt the same way about him, only Sam had cut himself off while he was at school. _If I'd called, would you have picked up_? They were almost the first words Dean had said when they'd seen each other again.

Sam's psychic thing might be a ghost magnet, but Dean was the one the ghosts understood. He was the one they identified with. Michael had chosen his brother because Dean was a soldier, a soldier who understood anger and abandonment. He understood what it was to be alone. Sam had left for school and refused to talk to Dean, then, to top it off, their dad had just bolted without so much as a good-bye. Sam knew about pain and loss, too, but the demon had taken Jess from him. Jess hadn't chosen to leave. Jess wasn't still around, just refusing to acknowledge his existence.

"Do you understand what it's like to know that person is out there, somewhere, but that you can't talk to them?" Dean demanded. "You can't call them or be with them? Maybe never again?"

"I was married and nothing could change that. When he came home, I told Michael I couldn't see him anymore, that he shouldn't call," Mabel said almost to herself.

"You made a life, but not with me." Dean winced as if it was physically painful to say.

It was Michael talking, but it was Dean's face, Dean's voice Sam heard. He didn't like to think what it had been like for Dean while he'd been away at school. Dean had spent that time nearly alone in the trenches. Sam could only imagine how silent those years had been. Their father had never offered information, and Dean knew not to ask. And if Sam understood anything, it was that his brother liked to talk, needed to talk. Maybe not about important things, but just for the noise, for the jokes and the camaraderie of it. Their father's silence, his complete lack of a sense of humor, would have been a terrible weight to bear without Sam there to counter it. Dean didn't talk about those years, and Sam didn't have the heart to ask.

"You," Dean growled, stabbing the gun again at Sam, "you did that. You took everything I had to live for. Do you even understand?" Dean's eyes pierced him, accusing, condemning.

Sam understood now, certainly far better than he had at eighteen or twenty. Now that their Dad was gone, now that Sam had lost so much, too, he understood better that sense of duty, the calling his brother had to hunt the things they did. But that didn't change the time Dean had fought alone while Sam purposely ignored him.

"Michael, I'm sorry," Mabel said quietly.

"I left it all to do my duty," Dean continued, seeming not to have heard her, "while you stayed safe and sound and took advantage of it. You're a _coward_."

It was like a punch to the gut, driving all the air out of Sam's lungs. Dean didn't really think that, did he? But almost in the same instant Sam asked the question, he knew it wasn't true, and it reminded him this wasn't his brother talking. He and Dean had relied on each other too often, saved each other too many times. The realization calmed him, and instantly Sam could breathe again.

"Michael, please."

They both turned to watch as Mabel stepped closer to Dean. She moved to stand in front of him and gently pushed the gun aside. She was more than half a foot shorter than Dean, and he looked down at her, then glared at Sam over her head before dropping his eyes back to her.

"Michael, I know you're angry with Bob."

"Please, May…," Dean said faintly.

"But it's my fault, too," she said. "I lost hope and I shouldn't have. I should have known something was wrong. I should have known you wouldn't forget me. I shouldn't have lost faith."

"Oh, May," Dean said, and Sam could hear the tears in his voice. "When he stole those letters, he stole both our lives. I don't blame you."

"You do," she asserted gently. "Deep down, I know you do, and you're right." She took the shotgun from Dean's hand and set it on the floor.

"I…"

"Shh…," she said softly, resting a hand against his chest. "I'm sorry, Michael. So sorry. I've wanted to tell you for so long."

"You married him, honey," Dean said, his voice broken, desolate. "You _married_ him."

"I was wrong," Mabel said through her tears. "So wrong, and I'm sorry."

The old woman stepped closer and wrapped her arms around Dean's waist, resting her head against his chest. Dean relaxed into the embrace and pulled her tightly to him, his cheek against the top of her head.

"I just wanted to stay with you," he whispered. "I wanted to grow old with you. I wanted us to be two old codgers sitting on the front porch watching the cars drive by, waving to the neighbors."

Sam understood now why it had been an old man he'd met in the Packard. Michael had stayed with the car, but he'd also stayed with Mabel. She had been ignoring him all these years, but he'd never left her. He'd stayed and grown old with her.

"I love you, Michael," Mabel answered, tears flowing freely, and Sam knew it was all there was to say. There was no way to right what had been taken from them. There was no way to replace lost years.

"Shhh…," Dean soothed. "It's all right now. It's all right."

His eyes rose to meet Sam's, and Sam's mouth dropped open. It wasn't Michael looking at him anymore. It was Dean. Just Dean, still standing there, comfortably hugging the old woman while she cried, her arms wrapped around his waist. His brother Dean, who had _serious_ personal space issues. Mr. Macho, Sam nearly grinned. Put him anywhere near a widow or an orphan…

Mabel stepped back and lifted her tear-stained face to look at Dean. Like Sam, she immediately saw the difference. She tentatively set a hand against Dean's chest, and Sam could see she was wishing for one last moment with the young man she'd known so long ago instead of the young man in front of her.

"You did a good thing," Dean said gruffly. "You helped him. He can rest now."

Mrs. Mills nodded and took her hand away from him, setting it over her own heart. "Maybe now I can, too."

Dean cleared his throat uncertainly. "I, uhh… I don't suppose you've ever seen Bob anywhere near the car, have you? I'd rather not have to go through this again."

"No." She smiled sadly. "Bob… I think he knew what was coming. I imagine he accepted his punishment."

"Still," Sam said, coming up beside her. "Just to be safe… Do you by any chance know what Michael did with the body?"

Mabel was already walking toward the back door they'd used to break in. She stopped for just a second and barely looked over her shoulder. "I was working on a new flower bed at the house the day before it happened," she said. "Bob never came home that night, but the next morning, the dirt had been filled in."

"You never told anyone?" Sam asked, mouth agape.

"What for?" Mabel shrugged. "Besides, the flowers were beautiful that year. They just grew and grew."

* * *

_The wrap-up tomorrow…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Love and War**

_So here you have it, all finished up. Many thanks for the lovely reviews. And for the not-so-lovely one, leave me an address and I'll happily respond._

Chapter Five

* * *

Dean heard the door shut behind Mabel, and he closed his eyes. "Well, that was awkward," he grumbled. "Woman cried so much, I could enter a wet t-shirt contest."

"You okay?"

"Sure." His muscles still felt funny, like they weren't quite attached, but it would pass. Dean flexed and rolled his shoulders, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Sam was watching him nervously, and Dean frowned in confusion. "You?"

Sam nodded, but didn't say anything. Dean bent over and picked up Marigold from the floor where Mabel had set her. When he came back up, he was lightheaded and his knees felt like they might give, so he stood very still until the moment passed. Sam seemed to understand what was happening and gave him time to reaccustom himself to non-possessed mode.

"You know, if my mailman hadn't delivered my letters, I might have killed him, too," Dean said.

"Dean, I'm sorry," Sam said suddenly.

Dean raised an eyebrow, puzzled. Sam still had an odd expression on his face and was watching him too closely. "Huh?"

"I'm sorry."

"For?"

"I'm sorry I quit talking to you while I was at Stanford."

Dean rolled his eyes. Now he recognized that expression Sam was wearing. Guilt. It was time for Sam's Guilt-Trip-du-Jour.

"And I see we're going for the world record for awkward tonight. First I've got old ladies crying on me, and now you… okay, so I've got two old ladies crying on me."

"Dean, I'm serious," Sam said, a bit of heat in his tone.

Dean snorted. "I don't think you know how to be anything else. I should have bought you more Happy Meals when you were a kid."

"Dean," Sam said, clearly frustrated.

"What, Sam?" Dean sighed. "Do I wish it had gone down differently after you left? Do I wish I'd had someone to talk to when Dad was making me crazy… or when the job got too hard? Do I wish I'd had someone to laugh at my lame jokes… or at least acknowledge that I'd made one? Yeah, I do. But hey," he shrugged, "water under the bridge."

"No," Sam said. "Don't just brush it off like it's nothing."

"Oh, it wasn't nothing," Dean said, and whatever Sam saw in his face startled him into taking a step back. Dean quickly tried to pack the hurt and anger away and force a smile. "But it's over now. The Wonder Twins are back together fighting evil." He grinned. "Although you're still the chick twin."

Sam sighed and then shrugged. "She had better superpowers, anyway."

"That's why I've got my trusty sidekick." Dean patted Marigold. "Who needs superpowers when you can blow 'em to kingdom come. Now, you?" He rubbed a hand over his chin thoughtfully. "You might need the superpowers."

"You sure about the Wonder Twins?" Sam asked, a sudden gleam in his eye.

"Why?"

"I know how you feel about monkeys," he said, his brow creased in mock worry.

Dean blinked in surprise and then laughed, a full, cleansing laugh. Sam just shook his head and began to turn away. Dean never thought he'd be grateful for Gleek or Gleep or whatever that supermonkey's name was. But Sam wasn't looking guilt-ridden anymore, and that was all that mattered.

Yeah, he'd been lonely without Sam. Their dad never had been a barrel of laughs, but at the time, Sam hadn't been either. He'd been angry, bitter, resentful, an all-around pain in the ass. So Dean had let him go. If he was going to be alone, he'd just as soon be by himself.

That wasn't to say a phone call would've killed the kid. Considering their job, an occasional "hey, glad you're not dead," or a "hey, kill anything interesting lately?" would've been nice. The complete cold shoulder was kinda rough on a person. Dean mentally shrugged. Bygones.

"Hey, Sam?"

Sam stopped, already halfway to the door, and turned.

"You, uhh… you think they'd mind if I finished taking the tour in here?"

Sam gave a short laugh. "We already broke in. I don't think we can break in more."

"Awesome." Dean could feel a grin building as he looked around. It was the cars. He couldn't help it. Even in the dim security lighting, they were magnificent. "Where were we?"

Sam pointed back several cars. "Last I remember, you were looking at the ugly one there like it was made of gold."

Dean's mouth dropped open. "Ugly?"

"Yeah." Sam shrugged.

"Dude, this is an Owen Magnetic." He waited for some sort of response, but Sam just stared at him blankly. "It's the equivalent of a _hybrid_ car built in the _teens_. Gas-powered generator, feeds to an electric motor in the back." He pointed. "They work together so that there's no crank start and it's automatic. No shifting. In the _teens_. This car cost more _then_ than some cars do _now_," Dean added, looking at him expectantly.

"I think that's the same look Michael gave me right before he shot me," Sam said, backing away.

"I'm not going to shoot you. I'm trying to educate you," Dean said. "All those years at school and you still wouldn't know a distributor cap from a hubcap."

Sam's expression flickered briefly at the mention of his time away, but he nodded pensively. "I'm almost certain one of those goes on a car. Just give me a hint."

Dean shook his head. "I'd send you to mechanic's school, but I'm afraid you'd quit talking to me."

Sam froze. "Dean, I…"

Dean tapped him on the forehead where the powder burns had been. "Dude, enough with the frowning. You're starting to get divots." He moved past him and began walking toward the door they'd used to break in. "Come on. Let's get out of here before we get arrested."

"You don't want to look at the cars?" Sam asked uncertainly, and Dean turned to look back at him.

"Nah. This car crap is just gonna bore you to death," he answered. Sam had apologized for ignoring him while he went off to school. Now that Dean thought of it, returning the favor and ignoring Sam while he wandered around the museum probably wasn't a good reward. Dr. Spock was all for positive reinforcement for the kiddies.

In truth, seeing the cars in the warehouse was almost sad in a way. They were locked up, sitting behind ropes. No one could drive them or touch them. They were stunning machines, meant for the open road. They were meant to run. They were meant to fly. It was like seeing wild animals living in captivity. They were magnificent, but somehow bereft of life because they weren't where they were meant to be. Everything had its place and purpose. He and Sam knew that better than most.

Besides, Dean silently added, he had one of the best cars ever made waiting for him out in the parking lot. He didn't have much. But he had Sam. He had his car. It was enough. And looking at the caged beauties around him, Dean suddenly had the urge to drive.

"Dean, I don't mind," Sam insisted. "I know how much you—"

"Can't see much with the lights off anyway." Dean shrugged. "Maybe we'll come back later." He nodded toward the door. Sam hesitated for another second, then with a perplexed shake of his head, moved to join him. Dean waited for Sam to catch up, and they fell into step, walking side-by-side. "So, no auto mechanic classes," Dean said thoughtfully. "Maybe a flower-arranging class?"

Sam frowned again, halfway between annoyed and troubled.

"I've got it!" Dean crowed. "The perfect combination! I'll let you get the car serviced on Ladies' Day. They give out flowers."

"You're hilarious," Sam muttered as they left the showroom and walked back into the storage room.

"Come on." Dean smiled. "I'll buy you a Happy Meal."

* * *

_Been a pleasure… Thanks for reading!_


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